


Could Do With Some Company

by InterestingInterpretation (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: Accidents, Chance Meetings, First Meetings, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 15:48:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12413184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/InterestingInterpretation
Summary: Martin's hurt both of you, slipping in the street. Platonic hurt/comfort.





	Could Do With Some Company

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by the rumour (later verified) that Martin had hurt himself, necessitating a few days off from his play Labour of Love. Nobody knew what he'd done for a day or so - this seemed as likely as anything else.

“Buggering FUCK.”

You turn at the sound and find a weight crashing into you, pushing you back against the stone wall.

“Ooof!” the air rushes out of your lungs, hands coming up automatically to try and protect yourself. You stumble, slipping on the wet ground and sliding down the rough stone. You feel pain bloom in your hip, your shoulder, the side of your face; a shuddering jar as you hit the ground.

“Shit…” A voice mutters, and you can feel someone pushing against you, trying to extricate the arms and legs that seem to be tangled together. You push one palm to the ground, righting yourself. Something wet is running down your bare leg but a glance tells you it’s not blood – probably the eggs, broken in your fall. You turn your attention to the person still leaning against you. A sandy head, solid torso; if you didn’t know any better you’d have thought…as he turns, you can see it is, in fact, Martin Freeman who’s fallen against you, his back still leaning against your crooked knee. His head is bowed, one hand gripping his ankle, but you’d know his profile, especially from such close quarters.

“Are you okay?” You ask him.

He huffs a laugh without looking at you, and says, “I should be asking you that, shouldn’t I? Fucking wet ground. Sorry.” You shrug, which he can’t see, and the silence makes him look up, blue eyes raking your face.

“Shit, your face.” He says, eyes locking on your left cheek, where the pain had bloomed earlier. You frown, raising one hand to see blood slicked against it. The sight brings the stinging pain back, and you wince.

“Where are you staying?” he asks, and you frown – how did he know…

“You’re wearing a backpack with a luggage label on it and you’re carrying a map of London,” he replied.

You shake your head. “That was too Sherlock.”

He rolls his eyes, but a smile quirks his mouth. “Obvious.”

“Yeah, and I’m an idiot, too.” You retort, and to your surprise he chuckles.

“I’m staying around the corner. I’ll be fine, just a scratch,” you say, trying to downplay the state of your face, which is actually starting to throb, matching the tempo in your shoulder.

He snorts and gives you a look. Actually, it’s more of a Look, complete with subtext. He hands you a handkerchief, which you press to your face. “I’ll call a cab.” He says, wincing as he tries to stand. You scramble up, trying to help, but his leg collapses under him, dropping you both back onto the ground.

“Fuck.” You mutter, and he grumbles in agreement, shifting to sit back against the wall as he fishes his phone out of a breast pocket. You hear him speak to someone as you collect your things, throwing the smashed eggs and a few other broken things into the bin. At least the tea had survived, you thought. As you go to tuck it into your bag, Martin stops you, looking at the label.

“PG Tips?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

You shrug, self-conscious. “Gotta have a cuppa,” you reply. Your budget hardly stretches to the nicer stuff, and though you’d never admit it, you’ve been curious to try the brand mentioned so often in fan fiction.

“Come on, this is us,” He says, struggling up, using the wall to stand as a black car pulls up.  A man jumps out, helping him over to slide into the back seat, and you hesitate, bag in hand. Surely he didn’t mean…

“Come on, real tea and medical attention at my place.” He says, and without thinking too much you climb in, where he’s shifted over for you.

“Thanks,” you mutter, concentrating on buckling your seatbelt.

“I’m Martin, by the way,” he says, and you withhold the ‘yeah, I know’ that jumps to your mouth. Instead you introduce yourself, and both of you lapse into silence as the cab takes them through London. You end up at a modest looking house, though the quiet and well maintained street tells you it’s actually a very nice neighbourhood. Martin pays the driver before you both struggle to climb out of the car. The driver hops out but Martin waves him off, hobbling over to the security gate. The time spent sitting still in the cab has stiffened your shoulder and made you more aware of the pain in your hip. You can feel the swelling in your face; your skin feels tight, and you wonder how bad it is. Blood isn’t dripping, which is good, but the handkerchief is very red by now. You follow Martin through the gate and into the house, wondering if you should be offering to help. He seems pretty independent, though, so you just follow him through a hallway into a kitchen at the back of the house. He drops into a chair, wincing, and you leave your bag by the other side of the table, shifting another chair so he can elevate his foot.

“Frozen peas or something?” you ask, looking around the kitchen. “You should ice your ankle.”

“No, I’ll be fine.” He says, and it’s your turn to shoot him the Look. You start opening cupboards until you find the integrated freezer, grabbing an icepack and wrapping it in the tea towel. You hand it to him with a variation of the Look, and he grins resignedly and puts it on his ankle. You return the grin.

“Is there a bathroom nearby? I probably should see what this looks like.” You indicate your face. “Sorry about this.” His handkerchief is on the bench, probably ruined now with the bloodstains on it.

“Yeah, sorry. Through there.” Martin answers. You thank him and go into the small room, closing the door behind yourself. You take a deep breath before looking in the mirror.

“Shit.” You’ve a decent scrape, from cheekbone to jaw, oozing red but not really bleeding. You’ll look a sight for a while – no band-aid will cover this, you’ll just have to suck it up. You check out your shoulder, rolling it over – pretty sore, but doesn’t seem to be anything really wrong. There’ll be a decent bruise on your hip, too, though it’s not bleeding. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you shake your head. _How did these things happen to you?_ You wonder, deciding to use the facilities since you’re there, and washing your hands. The side of your face is throbbing again, and you can see the swelling. Probably should get some ice, too. Toilet paper and water help with the clean-up, though it’s bleeding again now. You scrape the half-dried egg off your leg while you’re at it.

When you make it back out into the kitchen, Martin’s still sitting in the same chair, and he grins at you as you come in. It fades when he sees the fresh blood on your face.

“Fuck, your face.” He says. “I’m so sorry. A mate of mine is a doctor, he’ll be over soon to look us both over.” He gestures to the drawers in the kitchen. “You should get some ice, too.”

“Great minds,” you quip at him, gratefully finding a clean tea towel and another icepack. The pressure is a little painful, but you ignore it as you potter around, feeling the coldness seep into your face as you find mugs and a kettle.

“Tea?” you ask, filling the kettle one handed and turning back to Martin.

“Top cupboard. Pick whatever you like.” You wonder for a minute, before opening the cupboard and seeing at least a dozen types of tea.

“Wow.” You say, choosing the first you see – a plain looking black tea. Too hard to make a proper decision, you think, spying a teapot. The kettle boils as you take mugs, sugar pot and milk to the table. One last trip over and you sink into the seat opposite Martin. He plays mother, a far easier job with both hands free, before passing you a mug.

“Ta for this,” he murmurs, and you nod in reply. You sit with your hot mugs for a while, enjoying the quiet and relative comfort.

“How’s the ankle?” You ask finally. He’s just taken the ice off, and you move to pick it up and return it to the freezer.

“No, leave it.” He says, and you comply. Your muscles are sore now, and you haven’t really sat down since getting here. “Sore,” he says. “Jeremy’s gonna kill me.”

“Jeremy?” You ask. He brought it up, after all.

“Herrin. He’s directing the play I’m in.”

“Shit.” You say sympathetically, and he nods emphatically. There’s a knock at the door, and you look to Martin.

“That’s Rob. He’s got a key, I don’t know why he bothers knocking.” Martin comments, as the sound of a key turning and a cheery, ‘hiya!’ echo through the house.

“In the kitchen, Robbie!” Martin calls. There’s footsteps, and a figure walks in, relaxed smile as he surveys the room.

“What’ve you done, you idiot?” Robbie says, and Martin retorts. Clearly some kind of male bonding thing. Whatever. Martin introduces you, and insists that Rob looks at your face first. He says what you expected – just have to let it heal, but gives you some antibiotic cream to apply over the next few days.

“Nothing else sore?” Rob asks.

“Shoulder’s a bit sore, I’ll have a good bruise on my hip, but that’s it.” you reply. He watches you move your shoulder, checking the range of movement.

“Seems to be okay. Probably just be a bit sore for a while. If it’s still not great in a couple of weeks, you should probably see a physio.” Rob tells you, and you nod, thankful he’s confirmed that you won’t need any further medical attention. You finish your tea as he examines Martin’s ankle, which is visibly swollen now.

“Slipped on wet pavement?” Rob chides him as he wraps the ankle securely.

“Slipped and crashed into this poor bystander.” Martin adds indicating you.

“He’s a clumsy one.” Rob tells you, securing the wrapping. He turns his attention back to Martin. “Stay off it as much as possible. Sleep in the guest room, at least a couple of nights. I’d say a week off work, but I know you wouldn’t, but at least three days, mate. I know you’re working but that’s what Matt’s for. Just let him do it.”

“Yeah, alright.” Martin grumbles.

“I’m not going to bother getting you crutches, you won’t use them anyway. Call Jeremy and tell him to get Matt ready.” Rob directs him, and Martin rolls his eyes again and picks up his phone.

“Thanks for this,” you say to Rob, the two of you moving into the hallway to give Martin some privacy for his phone call.

“No problem. Make sure you get that shoulder looked at if it’s not right, as I said.” He tells you. “I’ll let myself out.”

You visit the bathroom again, partly to check out the state of your face (not bleeding, but now covered in antiseptic cream, how charming) and partly to give Martin time to finish his call. When you emerge he’s done, drinking his tea and looking grumpy.

“Do you have someone you can call to give you a hand?” you ask him, feeling awkward. Of course you’d love to stay and hang out but you can hardly just invite yourself over.

“I’ll be fine,” Martin says. You look at him, but he won’t meet your eyes.

“Martin.” It is weird to be addressing him by his first name, but he uses yours, so fair enough. “Do you have someone you can call to help you get around, at least for a few hours?”

“Yes.” He says emphatically – and untruthfully.

“Have you ever played Bullshit?” You ask him, and he turns to look at you. “I’m an expert at it, and you’re a liar.”

A smile tugs at his mouth at this. “Am I?”

“You don’t have someone to come and get you settled.”

He sighs, exasperated. “No, not really.” He admits.

“If it’s not too weird, I can at least get you sorted to…read? Watch telly?” you venture. “Least I can do after you’ve had your personal doctor look me over.” You say the last part with an amused tone, so he doesn’t think you’re being too serious, though the gratitude is real.

“If it’s not too much to ask.” He capitulates finally. You offer him your right side, the uninjured one, and between you, manage to get him to the bathroom, where he does not need your help (thankfully, there’s helpful and there’s way too personal), then into a small TV room at the front of the house. He gets sorted on the couch, and at his direction, you find pillows and blankets in the guest room across the hall. His ankle propped up, you survey the scene.

“Almost.”

You disappear for a few moments then return with a bottle of water, a slightly random assortment of food from the cupboards and fridge, aspirin and ibuprofen from the bathroom, a fresh icepack and Martin’s phone.

“Thank you.” He says, surprised that you’ve been so thoughtful.

“Phone charger?” you ask, and he directs you to the cupboard in the entranceway. Once you’ve sorted that, and the remote for the telly, he seems ready for at least a few hours.

“Anything I’ve missed?” You ask. “Teddy bear?”

He offers you the bird, and you flip it right back at him. You grin at each other.

“Could do with some company.” He asks. “Want to watch some terrible telly, get a takeaway later?”

“You sure?” You ask.

He grins. “Someone’ll have to answer the door later.”

“Wow, thanks.” You retort, relaxing. If he’s throwing friendly insults, you must be okay.

You settle into an armchair next to the couch. “What’re we watching, then?”


End file.
